


Our Gingerbread House

by holisticannibal



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Belly Rubs, Canon-Typical Violence, Dogs, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, Fluff, Happy Murder Family, Kissing, Love Bites, M/M, Murder, Murder Family, Murder Husbands, Off-screen Animal Abuse, Platonic Kissing, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-11 22:56:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9038594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holisticannibal/pseuds/holisticannibal
Summary: A dark tale featuring Murder Husbands Time and domestic fluff in their almost perfect metaphorical gingerbread house. Oh and, meet the newest addition to their family (HINT: IT'S A DOG!) A gift fic for @evangeli0n on Tumblr for @hannigramholidayexchange . Merry Christmas!





	1. Chapter 1

**  
At this point, there is absolutely nothing I have to do. But I don't want to spoil the fairy tale, do I? You and your little gingerbread house.**

**Let it be a fairy tale, then.**

**Once upon a time...  
**

\- - - 

Under the weak illumination of moonlight seeping through cracks on the wall of the old farm barn, blood, appears more black than crimson, trickles down along the vein on Will Graham’s arm, dripping drop by drop onto the dusty ground. 

_Have you ever seen blood in the moonlight, Will? It appears quite black._

Muscles around Hannibal Lecter’s eyes twitch minutely as they follow the movement of the blood, a ghastly smile hanging on his stretched thin lips, a hint of proud uncharacteristically obvious. 

Hannibal is no longer hiding his emotions from Will, not anymore. They are long past hiding things. 

His pale eyelashes flutter. He wets his lips as his longing gaze travels down the tense muscle on Will’s lower right arm. Will’s hand is slightly trembling, fingers still tightly clutching the linoleum knife that has minutes ago gutted a man alive - the ‘man’ who doesn't deserve to be called one.

In fact, Will’s entire frame is shaking, his breathing urgent, his heart and lungs supplying as much oxygen as they can to working muscles. He sees a thicket of antlers around him, he feels trapped, a replica of a distance memory from an old hallucination. All he hears is his heart, dim but fast, like footsteps fleeing into silence. 

When he feels the featherlight touch of Hannibal’s hand on his shoulder, he jumps with a start, but his nerves are immediately calmed by Hannibal shushing him like a frightened animal in his ear.

“Shhh…It’s over now, Will. Let go.” Hannibal’s hot breath lingers on the shell of Will’s ear where his red lips are, barely touching Will’s skin as he whispers soothing words of comfort. 

Will’s brain, over-stimulated and still in haze, finds it hard to understand what Hannibal is saying. Perhaps it’s not his fault because Hannibal may not be speaking in a language that Will understands. 

The man does that when he’s drowned in whimsy, his inhuman brain slips at moments of exquisite pleasure, almost childlike. 

The sound of Hannibal’s voice is low and soft, it’s the only thing that is grounding Will to the present other than Hannibal’s hand. Will feels the pressure from the assuring press of the older man’s palm shifts, slowly sliding down his arm. 

The movement pulls Will from his trance, his mouth opens, gasping for more air as the last of the adrenaline clears from his head. His fingers loosen momentarily, letting go of the knife. 

With his typical reflex, Hannibal’s other hand catches the knife midair before it can even begin the fall to landing on the ground with a clang. Carefully, he tucks the blood stained knife safely into his pocket.

Their clothes have been randomly splatted with red, stained with blood and grime. Will’s attention shifts, he stares at their clothes, transfixed by the crimson patterns on them. There are actually less blood than what Will has imagined. They are not wearing any protective suit tonight apart from the gloves. Fortunately, Hannibal has prepared another set of clothes in a bag stored in the trunk of their car. The bloody, soiled clothes are to be torched, together with the entire place, their crime scene, their design.

Will turns his head, his eyes blink slowly as they look up at Hannibal, taking in the expression on the man’s face. With his senses returning to him, Will’s empathy involuntarily reaches out.

_He is over the moon right now. Of course he is._

“You can be more subtle about it, you know, on how pleased you are,” Will sighs, “watching me kill him.”

“What would be the point?” Hannibal is, indeed, euphoric, and he is not afraid to let Will know. It almost felt like when they murder the Dragon together again. It’s addictive. He gives Will another gentle squeeze on the shoulder as his lips raise into a small smirk, head canting to the side slightly, the tips of his gleaming, sharp canine teeth ferally showing. Slowly, almost catlike, he leans in slightly and nuzzles his face against Will’s possessively, his nose taking in the enticing scent of blood on his Will. “Proud would be the word I'd choose.” 

No more pretence. 

Will raises his eyebrows and rolls his eyes dramatically in response. He tries flexing his blood-stained hands, the joint on three of his fingers are hurting quite badly.

“I think I’ve broken my fingers.” Will frowns as the pain hits. 

Hannibal takes a step back and reaches for the slightly crooked digits without hesitant, carefully examining them, testing them, watching Will’s reaction, relishing in his sweet but brief display of agony. The tenderness is striking

It’s convenient to have a partner in crime with anatomical and surgical skills. In a sense, Hannibal and Will are partners now. Two predators indulging themselves in the savage pleasure of hunting. Will no longer has concerns, but he is not free from moral constraints, not entirely. He has strict rules for choosing their victims, and he insists on them. 

Hannibal, to Will’s surprise, agree to them without protest. In a certain way, Will is keeping the beast that Hannibal really is on an invisible leash. Oddly, being symbolically collared, Hannibal doesn’t feel choked by the tension at all. On the contrary, he feels liberated. 

He has been alone for too long, longing to share the pleasure with someone who is able to understand and accept him fully. His life now belongs to Will, the rarest gift he is capable of offering, aside from the companionship, mentorship, and friendship devoid of all pretence that both of them has been depriving themselves for all their lives.

Sometimes even he can’t understand his decision when it comes to Will. Will’s influence intrigued Hannibal, and it still intrigues him now. 

.  
.  
.  
_After their fall off the cliff, throughout their long and hideous recovery, Hannibal has been courteous to Will, _maddeningly polite_ , as he once put it. Considering the things he has done to Will in the past, Hannibal has been uncharacteristically delicate with the man. He hasn’t resumed his killing spree like when he was in Florence. He has no particular reason to, and no particular reason not to, even though there are plenty of rude people in this part of the world too. _

_To put it simply, now that he’s finally together with his dear mongoose, he doesn’t know what to do with him. During the time he was caged in the BSHCI, Hannibal may have fantasised endless possible scenarios of him and Will, hunting together._

_He has waited for so long for this life, waited for so long for Will to choose this path with him. Everything seems too surreal. He doesn’t want this perfect illusion to end. His perfect gingerbread house. He wants to indulge himself in the fairy tale, just a little longer._

_Even though he knows he can trust Will, there is still that shadow of doubt lurking at the back of his head. A part of him still wonders if Will is going to abandon him again. Sometimes he deliberately let down his guard, just to observe Will’s reaction…_

_This Hannibal is the polar opposite of what Will wants. When Will finally has enough of the unresolved tension in the air between them, he’s the one who suggested it. He suggested they should hunt, together._

_“For god’s sake, stop testing me, Hannibal. If I wanted you apprehended, you'd be on your way back to Uncle Jack by now.” Will tells Hannibal with a tired sigh. “You can’t scare me off. I’m not scared of you. I’ve never been. I’ve made my decision. What is yours?”_

_Hannibal can see Will, and Will can see Hannibal, both with absolute clarity. So what’s the point pretending?_

_What’s the point, indeed._

_Hannibal looks at Will. His deep set eyes narrowed, reddened with raw emotions. After a long pause, he says with a toothy grin, the beast within him showing._

_“I never thought I would ever say it, but, Miss Lounds was right.” He says. “We are Murder Husbands now.”_

_At that, Will gives Hannibal a full-body eye-roll._  
  
.  
.  
.

A quick check tells Hannibal that Will’s gloved hands may have been bruised, but the injuries are mild.

“They're not broken.” Hannibal gently lowers Will’s hand and declares. ”Merely sprained. There are pain killers in the car. I have a bottle in the glove compartment.”

Will nods. “I’ll wait for you in the car. Better change soon. We’re behind schedule. We need to leave.”

They have all the time in the world, but Hannibal smiles, indulgently. “Of course, my dear Will.”

Will bites his lips.

“Take - take whatever you need.” He adds. “That is, if you need anything.”

Hannibal tilts his head, observing Will’s face with intense eyes. A curious red glint flashes as light is reflected from his amused deeply set eyes. “Would you join me at the table?” 

“No.” Will answers bluntly. 

In his eyes, such a filthy man doesn’t even deserve a place on their plate, on their table, but if that’s what Hannibal wants, what he _needs_ , he’d tolerate it, but he doesn’t have to willingly participate in anything.

Will’s disgust is apparent on his face, and Hannibal sees it, sees him. He no longer harbours the intention to make Will eat, or make Will watch him eat anything that Will is uncomfortable with, his desire for Will is way past that and it no longer excites or amuses him, so Hannibal shakes his head. 

“Hm. Shame, I was hoping to make you _filet mignon en croute au foie gras et morilles_ again. You seemed very impressed by the dish last time I prepared it for you.” He says, his grin broaden, borderline smug.

Will suppresses an inappropriate urge to mock him. On second thought. “Well, you can still make it, with some other meat.” 

Eating this man would be tasteless, now that Will has deemed him unworthy. Hannibal is more curious about what Will would do to him, what’s left of him. His beloved Will has an unique talent of expressing his wrath through transforming his murder into metaphorical art forms that reflect the true nature of his kills, revealing the monsters underneath them all. There are poetic elegance and grace underlying Will’s brutal displays. His creations are captivating, even by Hannibal’s standard. 

It’s a shame that Will seems to have decided to leave the corpse on the ground just as it is instead of transforming him. An imperfect end to a perfect act, but it’s understandable.

“This man does not deserve the intimacy, he does not deserve a place in my design.” Will tells Hannibal, his voice almost inaudible. “Nor in _our_ design.”

Hannibal observes. “You are angry.”

Will looks around him. It is the place where that wretch of a man chained and locked all the pets he snatched from their beloved homes before his death, cats and dogs and other animals alike. He tortured them here, he skinned them, and then he ate them, absorbing the love that their masters poured into them. There are blood stains, desperate claw marks and grimy bits of fur and flesh scattering all over the floor, way too much blood has long soaked into the darkened ground. They are brutal reminders of the existence of a filthy coward who once found pleasure in inflicting prolonged cruelty on innocent, helpless animals. 

“Are you fucking kidding me? How can I not? Of course I’m angry.” Will spits as he curses, unable to contain his wrath, his face tenses in phantom pain, flushed with rage. 

“You are furious this man hurt and consumed innocent animals that you cares deeply about.” Hannibal prompts. “You can understand and sympathise with the grief of them, with their owners, better than anyone.” 

“I’m angry with myself.” Will replies curtly and flatly, only an edge of his annoyance seeping into his voice. He licks his lips and narrows his eyes, trying to convert abstract feelings into verbal terms. 

Hannibal watches him closely, intently.

“I’m angry with myself because - because I let him die too quickly. Too painlessly.” He continues, his voice raises higher when he is agitated. “He could die a thousand deaths and it would never be enough. This man, he- he enjoyed torturing dogs, Hannibal, and he ate them.”

Will’s mind is racing, imagining multiple scenarios in which he can kill the man differently over and over again. He begins pacing restlessly around the barn, his nose wrinkles in disgust. It’s an expression Hannibal finds highly endearing. 

“You seem more upset about his disturbing eating habit,” Hannibal points out, his head turns as his eyes follow Will, “than when you discovered about mine.”

Will looks at him long and hard from the other end of the barn. 

“I’m particularly fond of dogs, I'm not particularly fond of humans.” That’s not exactly true, but it’s not a lie either. After a long pause, Will looks away. “You know well I don’t have your appetite, Hannibal.” 

“Yes, you do not.” Hannibal bows his head, his amused expression, although remains largely stoic, is just enough to appear unapologetic in Will’s knowing eyes. 

The fact that Will has grown so attuned to Hannibal and his emotions makes the empath increasingly uncomfortable. Understanding and acceptance. Hannibal is the walking proof of Will’s becoming. Will is not ashamed of who he is, not anymore. He has been transformed. The blood that the two men shed when their bodies hit the cold, harsh water of the Atlantic has fuelled their transformation. Their blood diffused in seawater, strands of red coiled and entwined against each other, linking them together, almost akin to a blood ritual. 

Blood rituals involve a symbolic death and then a rebirth, and in that rebirth, blood has bounded Hannibal to Will, and Will to Hannibal, inseparable. They are conjoined, destinies flying and swimming in blood and emptiness, but they are no longer alone. 

Will stares holes at the back of Hannibal’s head. He dismisses the gleeful monstrous being with another rather dramatic eye roll. Before turning towards the entrance, Will gives the messy corpse of the dead man a final glance filled with disdain.

That’s when Will hears it. 

At that very moment, Will hears something strange, a tiny whine buried under a ragged stack of hay in the corner. Carefully, he crouches down and parts the hay, revealing a trembling little ball with black and white fur. 

Swiftly with unnatural speed, Hannibal moves to stands protectively beside Will, his shadow looming over the smaller man’s crouching form.

A growl twisting into a whimper snarling back into a growl and then high pitch unsettling screams. The dog resembles a slimmer version of Buster, with black and white fur, and odd short legs under a slim, malnutritioned body. The scared little thing, upon seeing Will approaches, scrunches up its face and bares its teeth. There is no collar but only a thick, heavy metal chain tied around his neck. 

The dog is unusually thin, obvious signs of physical abuse all over his matted fur. Will bites his lips in frustration. He feels his eyes burn in their sockets, fury courses through him. He can feel his nerves clicking. 

To show the dog that he is respecting his boundaries and he’s not a threat, Will averts his eyes. The dog tips its head, reaching forward with caution to sniff the man’s patiently waiting offered hands.

“Hannibal? I’ve changed my mind.” Will speaks softly, his words cold and emotionless, although he’s agitated, he knows better than raising his voice around a frightened animal. “Take whatever you need, we’re making sausages.”

Sausages for the dog.

Hannibal acknowledges his request without protest, almost obediently. His eyes keep drifting towards the restless animal that is approaching Will. Curious, he kneels down beside Will, imitating his gestures.

Stunned by this unexpected behaviour, Will frowns and casts a few confused glances at Hannibal, a warmth slowly blossoms in his chest. An unfamiliar, welcoming feeling seeps down into his bones, kindling there and unfurling into a heat that unsettles him.

Will tries to ignore the wave of emotions, and focuses himself on comforting the dog instead. He coos soothingly at it, treating it like a new born puppy. 

It takes a long while, but the dog finally decides to trust the two strangers. It trusts them both enough to let them touch it. Will beams positively at the sweet dog like a big child, and Hannibal’s momentarily mesmerised. The dog utters a whine and a yelp when his neck is touched, indicating that ice cold metal chain is hurting it. 

Hannibal remembers the cold, heavy chain long ago that was noosed around his own neck…The metal has probably rubbed into the flesh. 

Will grimaces.“Shh…It’s going to be fine. I'm just going to remove this, okay?…”

Hannibal reaches out to aid Will in reflex, lifting and removing the chain from the animal’s body methodically and carefully, avoiding any chance of worsening the wound further. 

There is relieve on Will’s face. “There! There you go. Feeling better? Huh? Shhh, it’s okay, buddy, I got you.” 

The dog gathers its strength and inches forward, experimentally rubbing its head on Will and Hannibal’s hand, shy tongue comes out to lick the humans in gratitude. Their hands, now both tenderly resting on the dog’s forehead, inevitably touch, and Hannibal freezes. Will’s blue eyes darts across his face, knowing exactly what’s on the older man’s mind.

The moment feels outrageously intimate. 

A life is made from moments. In a way, this moment feels very much like when Hannibal and Will were back in the Hobbs’ residence, right after Garret Jacob Hobbs was shot, when Hannibal _saw_ Will for the first time - The moment when the doctor decided to step in and help Will, help him save the girl gasping, bleeding on the floor. The very moment that their hands touched, slippery with Abigail’s blood, that moment sealed both of their fates. 

In their shared memory, Abigail’s blood is still warm on their touching hands. 

_Where does the difference between the past and the future come from?_

_Before you and after you._

Nostalgia, a sentimentality, a bittersweet longing for things, persons, or situations of the past. Before Will, it’s a foreign concept; After Will, it’s a sentiment that Hannibal often finds himself easily relating to. 

The warmth of the dog’s tongue feels real, entirely different from the phantom sensation of Abigail’s hot blood on their hands. It pulls Will, and Hannibal, back to the present.

“We are taking the dog home.” Hannibal says, not a question, simply stating it as a fact. 

Will doesn’t answer, he knows he doesn’t have to.

After making sure every corner of the barn has been thoroughly searched and no more little animals are hiding or have been trapped in the mess, Hannibal harvests what he needs from the man. Together, Hannibal and Will set the place on fire. 

Roaring flames of the fire dance like sparkling stars as they’re reflected in their eyes. A rite of purification.

—

In the car, cozy, hot air blowing from the side vents together with the melancholic Chopin Waltz in B Minor softly playing in the background make Will feel drowsy and warm all over. His body no longer shivering in the cold, his overwhelmed mind slowly giving in to the pull of a dark force. He feels his heavy eyelids dissolving in the sweet foretaste of sleep.

Will blinks, then hugs the thin, injured dog closer to his chest, struggling to stay upright.

It’s quietly raining outside, very lightly but the air is uncharacteristically cold for a late autumn night.

“Rest, Will.” Hannibal says softly. “I’ll wake you when we're home.”

Within two minutes, Will drifts off to sleep. 

Hannibal, with both hands on the steering wheel, steals a few glances at his peaceful sleeping face every now and then. While waiting for a train to pass at a crossing with multiple tracks, he can’t resist reaching out his hand to brush a random curly strand of hair away from Will’s forehead. 

Beautiful. Will’s face bares scars, Hannibal’s scars, the Dragon’s scars, stubbled, lightly splattered with blood, imperfect and perfect in Hannibal’s eyes. 

The dog in Will’s arms stirs, and utters a soft whine as it yawns.

“Shh…” Hannibal pet and scratches its half floppy ears that are no longer flattened against his big head in fear. “We’re almost there.” 

Throughout Hannibal’s life, he has plenty of chances interacting with animals, domesticated or otherwise. He has been kind to them, from the black swans that lived in a pond back home, his family’s horse Caesar, to Uncle Robertus’ lazy mastiff…His memories of these animals are pleasant, but keeping a pet of his own is an idea that has never crossed his mind.

Now looking at the round eyes of the dog embraced protectively in Will’s arms, Hannibal feels a peculiar fondness that he has never experienced before for an animal. 

Already a mutual bond is forming between them. It’s Will’s influence, no doubt. Much like his compassion for Will, his compassion for the dog is involuntary, uncontrollable, inconvenient. 

Hannibal sighs. The worst of it is that Will’s influence doesn’t trouble him, not really. He’s already anticipating a new routine in his shared life with Will, a new routine with the addition of the dog as their new family member. 

_Family member._ Hannibal unconsciously scrunches his nose. The thought alone is unsettling enough. 

At the same time, other trains of thoughts in his ordered mind are mentally making lists of items that he has to purchase online for the dog - He may even rearrange the furnitures and make space for the dog in one of the guest bedrooms of their spacious house…It feels as if they are welcoming a child into their life. 

_Surprisingly domestic_ , Hannibal muses.

The most important question is, what to name the dog?

—

“No, Hannibal, we’re not naming him Encephalitis.” Will rolls his eyes, his amused voice echoes within the light grey tiled wall of the large guest bathroom. He put his fingers under the luxurious designer shower head, testing the temperature of the steaming water gushing from it. 

They are just back from the vet. Hannibal and Will have taken the dog there for a thorough examination. There is fortunately nothing fatal regarding his injuries, even though the poor thing has suffered through severe abuse, dehydration and starvation. There is no microchip on the dog, and nobody is looking for a dog that remotely looks like him. So the two officially claim the dog. 

Steam gathers on the frost glass door. The dog they’ve brought home is curling up in the corner of the shower, its pink tongue flicks in and out when water sprays wet its nose. 

“I'm merely joking, Will.” A smug appears on Hannibal’s face when he rolls up the sleeves of his cotton shirt.

Will looks at the scared forearm of the older man, deep in thought. The man has significantly dressed down compared to the lavish life style he put up back in Baltimore. It was a facade, a mask that helped the psychiatrist maintain his stature in higher society. Now that they have a chance to rebuild their lives from scratch, Will is surprised that Hannibal chooses a much simpler style, down to Earth, borderline domestic. Then of course there is no chance that Hannibal would compromise his comfort. His shirts, for example, are made of the world's best 100% Egyptian cotton. His wardrobe, although less extravagant and more practical now, still comprises of suits made from the best fabrics available, tailored by the best master in town. Their shared house is void of any elements that might seem intimidating to Will, except the kitchen area where Hannibal insist having only the best of everything.

 _It's for your benefit too._ And Will knows Hannibal is right.

Perhaps Hannibal is changing himself to make Will more comfortable.  
It’s a big change, considering how their friendship began - if their relationship qualified as friendship. Hannibal always has Will's best interest in mind. _Always._ He’s only been expressing his misplaced emotions wrong.

Will shakes his head and focuses his mind on the task at hand instead, bathing the dog. “Are you going to help? I’m surprised.”

Hannibal looks at him. “And why is that?”

“I thought you don’t like dogs.” Will answers honestly.

“Indifferent, yes, but I do appreciate their qualities. Canines are loyal. Provide them with proper nutrition, a warm place to sleep, a safe home and affection, they will protect you with their life when you need help. They are more trustworthy than many people.” Hannibal tilts his head as he summons the cautious dog with a low click of his tongue. The dog, surprisingly to Will, answers to Hannibal’s call immediately. “They can make delightful companions.”

Will chuckles. “I hope you’d still say that when you find dog hair in the soup.”

“You’d be surprised,” Hannibal smirks, his eyes narrows when they regard Will. “how much I’m willing to sacrifice, sacrifice for you.”

Rapidly blinking his eyes, Will hides the conflicted emotions racing in his mind with a fit of elaborated laughter. “I don’t need your sacrifice, Hannibal. Not anymore. You know I don’t. We owe each other nothing. You don’t have to change anything for me. You can be yourself even with me, be honest.”

They are equals now, at peace with each other, and with themselves. 

The muscles around Hannibal’s eyes twitch as his dazed look vanishes and a mischief expression takes over his features. 

“In that case, my dear Will,” Hannibal says, “allow me to make it clear that I would very much like to name our first dog.”

Stunned, Will stares at Hannibal’s smug face with wide stormy blue eyes, the next moment, he breaks into a fit of laughter that is evidently quite contagious because Hannibal begins chuckling with him too.

“Encephalitis is a really terrible name.” Will tells him in between breaths. 

He pours a dollop of shampoo in his palm, his shoulder bumping Hannibal’s as he leans over and works the amber liquid through the dog’s filthy hair. 

“Hm.” Hannibal watches his every movement, his eyes burning. “How about Dante?”

The dog seems to be enjoying Will’s massage very much.

“Dante?” Will frowns at the name. 

The dog looks up in respond to the name, his fur pitifully drenched in soapy water.

“See? He likes it.” Hannibal muses.

Will shakes his head, he sighs and mumbles, “Dante? - Dante it is then.”    
Will feels an itch and he rubs his nose with the back of his soapy hand. He takes the shower head from Hannibal’s hand, and sprays the dog with the water, the soap and bubbles sliding down his fur into the drain. 

Hannibal looks at Will’s face, his gaze fixated on the tiny dollop of soap bubbles on Will’s nose. Almost unconsciously, he slides his hand around Will, his fingers clinging themselves to the back of Will’s neck, while his thumb brushes the soap bubbles on the tip of Will’s nose gently away. 

The thumb slowly slide down from the tip of his nose, drawing an imaginary line down to the upper lip, then the lower lip. Will part his heated mouth, draws in a cold breath.

Their faces are impossibly close now. Will’s eyes travels up, slowly holding Hannibal’s heated gaze and at the same time the older man lowers his as if they are in sync like mirrored images. 

Pale eyelashes flutter, Hannibal’s eyes gleam with emotion, hesitantly he leans in even closer, breath catching in his throat as his mouth hover above Will’s upper lip, deciding. 

Flustered by the sudden intimacy, Will doesn’t pull away, as always he remains very still. The only sound in his ears is the running water echoing in the spacious bathroom mixed with his own heartbeat. He swallows hard, the second he blinks to moisture his eyes, he feels Hannibal chooses to place a chaste kiss on his forehead, featherlight but tender, right on the scar where he once tried to saw his skull open.

Will draws together his eyebrows, unsure if the emotions he is feeling is astonishment or disappointed, or a bit of both. 

Their bubble of comfort is momentarily bursted when the wet dog gives a big hearty shake until he gets most of the water out of his fur. 

“Dante! Dante! Stop! NO!” Will manages in between giggles. 

Their clothes are soaking wet when Dante has been properly washed, dried, groomed, both of them disastrously messy. Artificial scent of shampoo and wet-dog smell mixed with the sweet heat evaporates from the surface of Will’s skin fills Hannibal’s nostril. Hannibal doesn’t find the smell awful, or repulsive. Rather, it’s comforting, grounding and calming to his nerves.

 _Fascinating_ , Hannibal muses as he hands a fluffy, dry towel to Will. 

Everything that is needed done is done. The living room is silent, except for the sound of pencil drawing on paper, and random birds chirping in the mid-noon sun.

Both of the men are exhausted, same for the dog Dante.

Instead of retreating to their bedroom resting on their separate beds, the Hannibal and Will, and Dante, choose to take a nap on the spacious, soft couch. Hannibal takes the liberty of wrapping them in a soft, cozy blanket. 

Fatigue has caught up with Hannibal, he can feel his muscles aching. Three years locked up in BSHCI without proper nutrition and exercises has weakened his muscles’ strength. To recover from all the injuries inflicted by the Dragon, his body takes a toll on him and Hannibal knows his body needs more time before it can return to optimal state. 

“Ah-choo —…” Will sneezes loudly. 

Balled up on his lap, Dante jumps and casts him a questioning glare. Without further response, the dog relaxes and lowers his head again with a deliberate heavy sigh.

Hannibal jumps in surprise too, but relieved to find that Will is hilariously still fast asleep. The smaller man’s head lols to the side and lands against Hannibal’s shoulder, whom in response gently turns his face towards the messy curls, placing a light kiss there before he _sniffs_ with a flare of nostrils.

Slightly feverish, Will might have caught a cold.

Fortunately, Hannibal has all the ingredients for a quick nourishing chicken soup, but Will is sound asleep, and he doesn’t want to wake Will just yet. So he returns to his drawing. With the drawing pad balancing perfectly on his lap, Hannibal returns his concentration on the sketch instead of watching the news on the silent television that is mounted to the wall. 

The fire at the barn is not even worth mentioning by the news reporter, merely a short text reporting the accident. It flies across the screen with impossible speed. 

Without Hannibal noticing, Will cracks open his eyes. “What are you drawing?”

A soft grin appears on Hannibal’s face. He tilts his drawing pad for Will to have a look at the pencil sketch. 

“I’ve seen that before.” Will says quietly as he yawns.

“Achilles lamenting the death of Patroclus.” Hannibal nods positively. 

“Is there a psychological explanation for your obsession over the Iliad?“ Will asks, his voice still laced with exhaustion but at ease.

“It’s highly possible that the explanation is you.” Hannibal replies with a faint smug. “Battle-tested friendships, not unlike ours.”

Will doesn’t react but casts him a quick stare.

“You know, Will, aside from his empathy, Patroclus too had a passion for dogs.” Hannibal pauses before he continues. “Mourning over the death of his dear friend, of the nine dogs Patroclus fed beneath his table, the grieving Achilles cut the throats of two and threw their bodies on the funeral pyre, together with twelve noble sons of the brave Trojans, before he set the pyre alight and burn up everything. Stewed with rage, he promised Patroclus he would drag in Hector, then give him to the dogs to eat up raw.”

Will thinks of Abigail, thinks of many things. Sucking in a breath, he closes his eyes and draws his lips into his mouth to wet them. 

“Achilles was unwilling to consider the possibility that he might be overreacting.” Will whispers. “You have that in common with him.” 

“Achilles was devastated, with an overwhelming desire for revenge.” Hannibal shrugs. It feels like forever when Hannibal speaks again. He gives Will a gentle nudge. “Are you hungry, Will?”

It’s when Will realises he’s been leaning heavily against Hannibal’s shoulder. Embarrassed, he shifts and straightens himself. 

“Not really, no.” He reaches for his glasses when he’s embarrassed even though he’s not wearing them, an adorable habit. 

Despite what Will says, Hannibal is making him chicken soup. “You have a low fever. You have to eat something.” 

With catlike ease and grace, Hannibal arises and stretches, before heading towards the kitchen. He opens the fridge, checking if he has the right ingredients. Technically it’s not gumbo because there is no roux, but it certainly is going to taste like a gumbo. A taste from Will’s childhood. 

Homemade chicken broth, chicken pieces, sausage links, wild rice, tomato paste, bell pepper, onion, celery stalks, okra, parsley, bay leaf, and fresh thyme from his living herb wall, he almost has everything for the Louisiana style dish except Basmati rice. 

Perhaps Jasmine rice will do. 

Taste, is not only biochemical, it’s also psychological. Hannibal first prepared an authentic Louisiana gumbo for Will and Abigail back on the day when Abigail submitted both of their names as her guardians. Hannibal still remembers the blissful expression on Will’s face when he took his first bite. It was their first dinner together as a _family_. It will be the first meal they have with the company of their new dog. In a way, the dog is their new _family_ now. 

This is their best possible world.

While Hannibal bends over to examine their food stock critically, Will stares at the man’s body. The soft sweater and pyjama pants he is wearing hang loosely on the older man’s frame. Hannibal is still quite lean. He doesn’t exactly has a paunch, but he certainly has added weight. 

His middle looks…different, soft. Perhaps he does have a slight paunch after all. 

A strange warmth rises in Will’s chest, again. 

“Can I help?” he clears his throat and asks.

Without turning towards him, Hannibal answers, “Certainly, you can boil the water, for the ginger tea.”

—

They have a lazy week following that. 

Hannibal, when he is not reading, writing or drawing, spends busy afternoons making cured meat, broths, Liverwurst, without onion or garlic so that Dante can have a taste too. On occasion he’d pick up the dog, checking on his wounds that are healing satisfactorily.

Will happily devotes his attention and time fully to Dante, familiarising him with his new home, training him basic rules, socialising him. The dog has already grown very attached to Will and Hannibal - in particular with Hannibal.

It’s late afternoon when Hannibal sits before his antique harpsichord and begins playing. Dante hurries to Hannibal’s side, curiously tilting his head at every strange note that Hannibal produces.

Will, standing beside Hannibal, can’t help but laugh. It’s a genuine, happy laugh, a lovely sound to Hannibal’s ears. He turns his head around, his eyes stare up at Will longingly, hungrily.

A golden glow is shining through the wall-to-wall window, from the setting sun at the edge of an endless horizon of the sea onto the comfort of the spacious lounge. 

Maybe it’s the way Hannibal’s face catches the light, at that particular moment Will finds himself mesmerised. 

Hannibal’s face turns slightly upwards towards the light, the shadows of the contours perfectly accentuate his well-defined profile. Will’s gaze lingers on the skin pulled tightly across his high prominent cheekbones, the amber red eyes deeply set in the socket of his skull, the few stray strands of ashen hair barely touching the pale eyebrows…Will looks Hannibal in the eye for a few moments. He can’t resist the urge to just lean down and kiss those thin lips that has been pulled into a tight, perfectly composed smile. 

So he does just that - Out of a whim, Will leans down and presses his lips against Hannibal’s. 

Obviously surprised, for a few seconds Hannibal doesn’t know how to react, so he doesn’t react in any way at all. He doesn’t pulled away from the touch, nor pushed Will away. He is simply stunned on the spot, remaining absolutely still. 

A mix of confusion and disbelief pinches between his brows. His slit-like eyes narrow further, blinking slowly then rapidly, before they close entirely, hiding the burning sensation welling up behind his sockets. Only then, he opens his mouth, cants his head, and returns the kiss. Tip of Hannibal’s tongue lingers a moment too long on Will’s lips, just so to savour the taste. 

The intimacy is painfully tender. Both of them are more than glad to let the kiss linger. 

Feeling Hannibal’s hands clutching at his shirt where his heart is rapidly beating, Will reaches up to cup the man’s face in his hands, his thumbs gently tracing the lingering dampness on his cheeks. 

How long has Hannibal been waiting for Will to initiate a kiss? 

The thought hits Will, hard. 

Astonished, WIll mutters. “For fuck’s sake, Hannibal. What are you?…”

Hannibal whispers with lips still hovering above Will’s, his voice low and and almost husky. “You tell me.” 

As if on cue, the doorbell chooses this time to interrupt, beeping outrageously loud, breaking the moment. 

The sound not only startles Hannibal and Will but also the dog. Dante gets on his four feet immediately, rushing towards the main door with loud protective barks. The little dog is almost as feisty as Buster. Sometimes Will still misses his pack of dogs in his old life terribly much, he can’t help it.

Urgently, the doorbell beeps again.

Hannibal sighs. Unwillingly, he makes himself let go of Will. “Hmm. It must be the delivery.” 

“What delivery?” asks Will, confused. 

—

“It’s a big box.” Will comments. 

He watches in awe as Hannibal swiftly slices open the giant cardboard box with a small blade he produces out of nowhere. His eyebrows raise higher than he thinks possible when he sees the delicately wrapped items unboxed.

Overly-excited as if he knows these are all presents for him, Dante begins spinning in circles, jumping up and down, barking and yipping like he’s the happiest dog in the world.

"Are you kidding me?" Will grins so big and then his jaw dropped, his eyes grow really big, and he says, “Is it really necessary?”

They are all pet products, accessories of the highest quality - As if Hannibal Lecter would accept anything less than the best - They include a variety of chew toys, dog beds (There are five,…FIVE of them. All looking positively soft, fluffy and cozy), groom brush, walking leash…

Will picks up one of the pet bowls, it feels nice and heavy in his hands, it’s possibly the nicest pet bowl he has ever seen. The two sets of food and water bowls are made of stainless steel and smooth ceramic, all inscribed with Dante's name on it, plus a hilarious ‘Bon Appétit’ and a mischievous paw print that makes Will wants to laugh and cry at the same time. 

The last item Hannibal proudly presents Will is a dog collar - A luxury dog collar no doubt because who’d put a dog collar in a velvet box like an expensive piece of jewellery? The collar is of simple but tasteful design, made of soft leather with cowhide lining. The chain and buckles are golden brass, on the the nameplate, Dante’s name and their phone number are engraved with the most elegant font. 

Hannibal certainly has good taste in everything. It must have cost a fortune, by Will’s standard. Will shakes his head in disbelief. 

In answer to Will’s earlier question, Hannibal simply says, “Yes.” 

“It’s really excessive for a dog to have five beds.” Will points out. “We can put one in every corner of the house.”

He picks up the largest one out of the five, the cushioned bed is almost triple the size of Dante’s body, and it’s obviously made for much bigger dogs. “This is way too large for a small dog. Do you expect he’d sleepwalk in it? Dante is not going to grow anymore, you know.”

Hannibal turns to look at Will, one side of his mouth pulled up into an uneven smirk that Will loves to hate. “I sincerely doubt that Dante will be the last dog you take in.”

He is positive that Will is going to take in another stray very soon. Old habit dies hard, after all.

Will bites his lips and says nothing further, because Hannibal is probably right.

—

Will is undoubtedly very experienced in dog training, and he is very good at it. Within two weeks, Dante has already mastered almost all of the new rules in his new home, except for the one that banishes him from Hannibal’s and Will’s beds. 

Sometimes Hannibal, or Will, wakes up in the middle of the night when the dog has taken up 3/4 of their bed - depending on which human he has chosen to sleep with that night - the man would sit up in the bed, and stares hard at his other half of his soul. 

Will notices that Hannibal sometimes grinds his teeth and makes soft cooing noises when deep asleep. 

Hannibal realises Will snores rather loudly during his dreamless sleep. He still sweats when nightmares hit. 

A life where such intimate knowledge of each other’s personal lives seems impossible, especially for these two who has been alone all their lives, despite their attempts to understand the concept of love and family. 

Only now they realise they are made for each other and each other only. They are practically inseparable from each other now.

Normally, Will prefers to stay in bed a bit longer than necessary every morning, unlike Hannibal who is an early riser. 

Every morning when Will’s finally gathered up enough will to roll off his bed and take Dante out for a walk, Hannibal is already sipping his first coffee at the dining table, reading on his tablet or sketching on his drawing pad. Breakfast will be readied by the time when the man and the dog returns from their easy jog.  To be completely honest, Will has never expected Hannibal to help in taking care of Dante, except perhaps making the best and most nutritious homemade dog food - Food is, unarguably, Hannibal’s expertise, after all. 

Therefore, when Will wakes up one morning to find Hannibal returning from a walk with Dante wearing a very casual zipped up sports hoodie, he’s utterly baffled, confused, and surprised. He rubs his eyes with the back of hand and glances at the digital clock, “I’m sorry. I've overslept. Thank you for taking him out.” 

“No problem at all.” Hannibal answers simply.

Will absently regards the energetic dog that is jumping on his bed even though he is licking his face with excess enthusiasm. His mind is instead focused on Hannibal, and Hannibal alone. 

He squints his eyes, and stares at the man with disbelief. “Am I hallucinating, or are you wearing Adidas?”

“Much like you, I do own appropriate outfits for exercising, Will.” Hannibal chuckles. “I’m surprised you’ve never noticed.”

"And since when do you go on runs?" Will asks, smirking.

Hannibal shrugs vaguely, not answering because he’s not going to admit to Will the fact that he’s been gaining weight lately. 

Out of his person suit, this version of Hannibal looks _normal_ in _normal_ clothes, Will realises. 

He looks so _human_. 

Is this the version of Hannibal that Bedelia saw in Florence behind the veil? Will feels a pang of jealousy that vanishes almost at once. 

Living with Hannibal under the same roof is a brand new experience for Will, let along living together with a dog.

Hannibal hasn’t complained a word, but Will doesn’t miss the way Hannibal frowns when he sees dog toys randomly scattered on the floor and furnitures, or when he finds dog hair sticking to the expensive fabric of his favourite bespoke suits. He doesn’t miss the extra hour Hannibal devotes every morning solely for cleaning the house thoroughly, obsessively. 

Later when Will finds Dante chewing on Hannibal’s velvet slippers, he feels truly sorry for the man. He has changed, and sacrificed too much for Will.

“I should have trained him better, I’m sorry.” Will apologies as he watches Hannibal dumping the thoroughly chewed slipper into the trash, his empathy feeling for any sign of displease, or anger from Hannibal.

But there is none.

Hannibal’s sentiment and adoration for the dog is an entire foreign adventure for Hannibal, it seems that he chooses to embrace the experience fully.

“It’s nothing. Do not worry yourself with it, Will.” Hannibal says. “Animals will need time to get used to his new environment and the new people in his life, not unlike human beings.” 

He’s right. Dante is adjusting. They are both adjusting. 

Dante, Hannibal, Will. 

All they need is time.

 

// (There will be slight nsfw elements in the next chapter but no explicit contents.)


	2. Chapter 2

Rain water forms a thin layer between their feet and ground.

Will takes a glimpse at the water flowing in the drain, even though it’s dark, he can catch the transition of the water flowing within from murky grey to bright red and finally crimson dark.

Washing away the sins, metaphorically speaking. 

The man hanging upside down in the narrow alley is not dead yet, not entirely. He is fighting against his restraints with the last of his strength, only to make the blood pumping even faster out of his body through the precise cut across the carotid artery on his neck. A futile struggle. 

Hannibal takes a step back, standing by Will’s side, together they admire the view.

This man is a clergyman, guilty of abusing minors. His victims are almost exclusively young girls with very long hair, he has the typical habit of retaining a part from every victim, a trophy in the form of long locks of hair. He manages to avoid prosecution only because he is associated with the most wealthy in the city.

What is good and pure is twisted. Hannibal has crucified the man on an inverted cross, the cross that St Peter was crucified on because he didn't feel himself worthy to be crucified on the same form of cross as his messiah. Will sees him as the devious serpent who lure the innocents with twisted words, and he will show the world what he really is. They break every bone in his body, and with a braided rope made from his victims’ hair, they change him into this snake of a man he really is, tied on the cross like a taxidermy. 

The smell of blood is strong, even though the rain is washing away most of the splattered red on their plastic suits slash raincoats. 

Hannibal turns to look at Will, his face purely euphoric as his heavy breathing evens out, his eyes darkened with adoration and want. Knowing exactly what Hannibal is thinking, Will turns his head up, meeting the older man’s lips in the space between them. 

They are perfectly in sync now. Their hands cradling each other’s face, fingers caressing each other’s scars. Their lips cracked open just enough for hungry tongues dashing out sweetly and briefly, tasting each other’s heat.

Their hair is plastered to their face by the rain, falling pathetically into their eyes. Drop by drop. as if in slow motion, rain drips down from the tip of their hair, running along the contour of their face, down the eyebrows into their half-closed eyes. As they blink, clear droplets fall down from the tip of their long eyelashes like tears. Under the orange glow of the street lamp, it’s as if they are weeping blood. 

Everything at their crime scene feels almost poetic, freakishly beautiful. 

Still overwhelmed by the adrenaline rush of letting himself go so completely, His hand reaches for Hannibal’s, their fingers entwine.

Will’s body is shaking, he mutters, “This- This is _our_ design.” 

Will feels Hannibal’s thumb brushes tenderly on his skin in response. “Yes.” 

—

The moment the bathroom door is closed with a kick and a bang, Hannibal grips Will by the waist and throat, and shoves him up the cold tiled wall, his eyes glitter with feral love. Will groans in response. Hannibal claims his lips, swallowing the sound hungrily. 

The kiss is not gentle, almost violent, both of them claiming, biting, tasting blood sipping from where their teeth accidentally scrapping and cutting the flesh of their tongues. Their chests heaving and their breath ragged as their swollen lips part.

Hannibal turns on the shower, streams of scalding hot water falls from the ceiling like heavy rain. White steam begins to fill the bathroom as they help each other shedding off their drenching wet clothes that are plastering to their skin due to the cold rain. Specs of blood and grime caked on their skin and hair dissolve and washed away by the running water.

_They have seen each other’s body when they were tending to each other’s wounds after the fall. Will swallowed and frowned deeply when he saw the faded Verger crest on Hannibal’s lower back for the first time. Frantically, he searched every inch on Hannibal’s body, getting to know his scars, old, and new alike, sealing them forever in his photographic memory._

Now with both of them standing naked under the rain shower, Will lays his palm flat on Hannibal’s chest, feeling the texture of the soaked chest hair with his fingertips, searching and matching every scar with the ones in his memory. his thumb brushing against the softer new skin that formed around the bullet wound scar on Hannibal’s right abdomen, giving him a rush of nostalgia. 

In turn, with calloused fingers, Hannibal traces Will’s scar on his forehead, on his cheek, on his shoulders, on his collarbone, on his stomach above the bellybutton. He’s not merely touching them. He worships them. 

“What a collection of scars you have.” 

"Right back at you, Hannibal.”

Hannibal lowers his eyes, water drips down from his pale eyelashes as he leans forward and loops his arms around Will’s shoulders, taking him into a warm, tender embrace. The arousal trapped between them is too obvious to ignore. Will can feel Hannibal’s hot breath as he sobs in the crook of his neck, his teeth nipping softly on the skin connecting his neck with the shoulder while his nose takes a cool sniff on his heated skin, scenting him like a prey, like food. 

Shivers raced down Will’s spine then burst across his skin, raising goosebumps. A natural response when being held between the teeth of a predator. 

When Hannibal bites down hard at the base of his neck. A small stream of blood escapes from between his sharp teeth and wet lips, trickles down Will’s skin, the drop eventually diluted, washed away by rushing water. 

Fresh blood from Will tastes exquisite on his tongue, Hannibal indulges himself a low moan, his teeth still clamping onto Will’s shoulder. 

Will’s mouth opens in a silent gasp, half pain, half ecstasy, confused by the conflicting sensations rushing through him. An intricate blend of affection, intimacy and thrill. It’s addictive. It’s the best feeling Will has ever felt. 

— 

After the rain there is always sunshine.

In their securely fenced off backyard, two thoroughly cleaned and scrubbed clear plastic suits are hanged up to dry under the gentle sun. 

Will winces as he lowers his hand, he can feel the pull of the bite wound on his shoulder, even Hannibal has treated it expertly.

Hannibal loops his arm around Will’s waist, his lips whispering a short apology in his ear. “Atsiprašau. I didn’t mean to break the skin.”

Will shrugs, his hand ghosts over the smile on his stomach, he has had way worse from Hannibal. “You do that on purpose, don’t lie to me Hannibal.”

Hannibal grins, impossibly proud. 

Light reflected off from the transparent surface as they sway slowly in the wind. Hannibal and Will watch their murder suits thoughtfully and mindlessly.

After a long comfortable pause, Will comments on their plastic murder suits, out of the blue. “They make funny sounds when you walk around in them.” 

Hannibal raises his pale, almost non-existent eyebrows with an endearing glint in his eyes. He chuckles lowly, “Yes, they do.”

Will looks at the minor height difference in their plastic suit, his eyes narrow, suppressing the wicked hint of a smile. “I feel like there's a really inappropriate joke in here somewhere.” 

Hannibal tilts his head with an obvious hint of amusement.

Dante, meanwhile, is running around the garden sniffing everything, overjoy for the blue sky and warm sun. He is particularly fond of the few giant garden snails that are inching up the garden wall, leaving a trail of slime behind them. 

“As a young man, I used to keep snails.” Hannibal says absently.

“Your cochlear gardens. In Lithuania. I’ve seen them.” Will nods. “Snails for the firefly larvae to eat so that they could feast and grow into delicate creatures. A transformation.”

“Yes.” Hannibal says. “Are they still there? The snails and the fireflies. Are they all still thriving, even now?”

Hannibal cannot go home. If one day he returned, the skeleton of Will’s gift to him might still be there. Perhaps when Hannibal chooses to go home, the only reason for him to is to retrace Will’s footsteps in the past, very likely after his death. Because Hannibal misses Will, and seeing him in his memory palace alone is no longer enough… 

The idea disturbs Will, but the idea of death doesn’t, not really.

“Yes.” Will pauses, then he continues. “Fireflies live very brief lives.”

Hannibal turns to regard him. “Better to live true to yourself for an instant than never know it.” 

Will bites his lips, considering his words. He glances up at Hannibal, the older man’s face is perfectly happy, but there is a ripple of darkness that disappears as soon as it appears; For a brief moment, even though they are standing under broad daylight, he thought he saw an imaginary dancing firefly swirling around them, swirling upward in the air, before it disappears entirely into nothingness.

—

There is always music in their shared household, and also the aroma of food. 

A giant, juicy, leg of lamb together with a variety of root vegetables that Will doesn’t even know the names of are roasting in the oven, providing a wonderful house-filling sweet aroma of cooking meat and spiced herb. 

Butter melts in a pan, two fresh pieces of red meat are tossed in with a sizzle. White smokes rises in whiffs from above the red hot stove, reaching out in the air as if they are alive.

Hannibal stands in the kitchen, savouring his nice Bordeaux and Bach’s Goldberg Variations while the meat is browning nicely in the glittering butter sauce. 

Nostrils of a wet, glossy black nose flare as it twitches, sniffing curiously. 

The meat is liver, one of Dante’s favourites - Basically everything his daddy cooks is Dante’s favourite. The dog’s tail sweeps left and right with impossible speed. A drop of drool falls to the tiled floor as the dog poses himself, sitting perfectly and proudly right next to Hannibal’s feet, his paws kneading urgently as he utters a series of soft whines. 

“Hannibal, it’s too rich.” Dante’s papa, Will, scolds mildly with a frown while he is setting the table. Linen and cutlery immaculately placed have been placed where they should be. Hannibal’s borderline OCD habit has bled into Will as they let their lives begins to blur further and further. 

“Liver can provide a dog with protein, fat and vitamin A, all of which help him stay healthy if offered in moderation.” Hannibal counters as he uses a fork to flip the liver pieces in the pan, browning the other side golden brown. “Liver is also a good source of copper, iron, niacin, phosphorus and zinc. It provides many B vitamins, omega-3 and omega-6 fatty acids, and essential amino acids he needs from his diet to keep him healthy.”

Whatever. Anyways.

“You can only have a taste, Dante. Three small pieces, at most, and no more.” Will warns the dog, and indirectly, to Hannibal. He knows Hannibal would never feed Dante anything harmful, but setting ground rules gives Will an illusion that he is somehow still in control of the spoiled dog. 

It seems almost funny to Will that keeping a dog together with Hannibal feels terribly similar to raising a child. Hannibal may have an OCD for order, but he is also the one who thrives in breaking rules, specially Will’s rules, all the time. 

The way the former Chesapeake Ripper ‘accidentally’ dropping food on the floor while cooking, or silently passing cubes of meat to Dante under the table during dinners…Will finds the two most annoying, but somehow also extremely endearing.

“It's Christmas Eve, Will, let him eat.” Hannibal muses. His nose sniffs the air curiously like Dante. “How's the toast going?”

Fresh figs have already been chopped into dices in a bowl, marinated with honey and balsamic vinegar, ready to be served on toast together with the liver as the perfect bite-size appetiser. 

There is a faint but alarming burning smell. Will is responsible for toasting the sourdough bread for dinner, and he’s forgotten about it. “Shit.” 

These little mishaps in life somehow makes Hannibal’s heart swells rather than getting agitated. Perhaps he does have a heart, after all. 

A passionate but cold heart. 

Awfully domestic, he knows, but it’s literally the first time he trusts another human being well enough to share a life with him, someone who can understand him complete, but also capable of killing him any moment they are together. 

It’s dangerous, and terrifying, and Hannibal relishes in every minute living in this life.

—

Besides eating daddy’s food, Dante most enjoys listening to Hannibal playing the harpsichord.

But the theremin? Not so much.

There seems to be a celebration of some sort tonight, Dante doesn’t understand the significance, but he enjoys the extra bits of tasty treats very, very much. 

After dinner, the evil musical instrument is taken out from the cabinet and set up against the bed. Dante recognises its sound as soon as the first high pitch note hit the air. It rings across the room with a weird screech. The dog hurriedly escape the room to the safety of his own bed back in the guest bedroom at the other end of the hall. He is a bit upset that he cannot sleep with his daddy and his papa tonight. 

Perhaps he can come back later, sneaking back quietly onto their beds after they’re both asleep.

Two separate king-size beds sit in the shared master bedroom of Hannibal and Will, not even taking up half the space. One of the beds is perfectly made, while the other is not. A great hearth lays across the room, nestled in a corner and burning brightly. 

Hannibal and Will have been sleeping in the same room since after their fall together off the cliff. They were forced to, initially, they needed to be close to each other because Hannibal had to take care of Will’s wounds that were showing signs of inflammation. They had slowly grown used to each other’s presence in a single space.

One can grow used to almost anything. It’s strange, and illogical.

When they were healed satisfactorily, when Hannibal suggested he should book himself a separate motel room while they were on the run, Will tucked at Hannibal’s sweater and asked him to stay instead. Hannibal complied without a second thought. And they stay in the same room ever since. 

But sleeping in the same bed, that’s a recent development.

Sitting at the edge of their bed, Will is giggling uncharacteristically at the strange sound screaming from the theremin under his manipulation. 

_Their_ manipulation - because Hannibal is sitting on the bed with him. His hands holding Will’s in the air, teaching him play the instrument. Their movement messy but in sync, like matching shadows. 

Their eyes are glassy, slightly bloodshot. They are both a bit tipsy from drinking all the wines, a few shots of whisky, the hot, delicious citrusy mulled wine, a red and a white served during dessert that go perfectly with the chocolaty chocolate yule log cake. 

Hannibal gives Will a composed but bright smile, the tips of his canine teeth are showing. Sitting with Will in his arms, his exposed neck is impossibly close to Hannibal’s face. Unable to resist, Hannibal leans forward and buries his nose in the crook of Will’s neck. He drags in deep lungful breaths. Something inside him clicked, and a sense of rightness seized. The sound of the theremin is hurting Hannibal’s ears, but it warms his heart because everything in the room right now is like a long lost dream for him.

There is a dark fear lurking in Hannibal’s mind that sometimes comes out and haunts him at his happiest moments.  
.  
.  
.  
_  
What if he has never escaped, killed the Dragon, nor fallen into the sea together with Will._

_What if he is still locked up in BSHCI, lost in his own memory palace, his own mind._

_What if these are all hallucinations, fabrications in his head because Will has never returned to him, in order to cope with the fact that he has lost Will, forever._

_What if this is the dream of the dead as they were both lost to the sea._  
  
.  
.  
.

“You’re doing it again.” Will’s voice pulls Hannibal back to this reality.

Still sitting in between his legs, Will half wriggles out from his grip, his body turned towards Hannibal, his arms resting naturally on his shoulders. There is concern on his face. 

“To what are you referring?” Hannibal asks, still mildly distracted.

Will heaves a deliberate sigh. “Your face.”

“What about my face?” Hannibal cuts in. 

“There is this look…You look at me with, um, uncertainty,” Will narrows his eyes, “as if I am not real.”

Hannibal looks away, his nose twitch involuntarily. He is not used to being understood, and so it makes him feel transparent, naked.

“Our scars have the power to remind us that the past was real, Hannibal.” Will takes Hannibal’s hands in his, and slowly, he pulls it up to rest the heated palm on his right cheek. “This is real, we are real.”

Silt-like eyes of Hannibal observes Will intently, many thoughts racing in his mind, all at once. He crooks his fingers, the tips of them gently hovering, brushing lightly over the undulating surface of the recently formed scar tissue hiding under Will’s stubbles.

Will’s hands unconsciously slip down, unbuttoning the buttons of Hannibal’s shirt, please to feel Hannibal go limp under his touch, letting him do whatever he wants. 

Hannibal’s skin is warm, and the hair on his chest is soft and rough under his touch. When his exploring touch eventually moves downwards, Hannibal hisses a breath through his teeth and arches his back ever so slightly in response to Will smoothing his palm over his soft middle, nails scrapping lightly on the sensitive skin. 

“You like it.” Will murmurs fondly. 

A rare flustered expression appears on Hannibal’s face, before he tries to hide it the next instant behind his usual mask of iron. His hand reaches up to grab Will’s arm, unsure if he wants to pull that hand away. 

“Will.” His voice husky, laced with desire.

“A dog showing his belly is a submissive behaviour. When a dog offers his belly for a rub, it shows vulnerability and trust.” Will says and chuckles silently. 

The notion of dominant or submissive is not really applicable to them because they are more like equal existences now, two mirrored souls. What is between them is more akin to trust, unrelenting trust, and allowing themselves to be vulnerable in each other's presence. 

_It’s nice to have someone see us, Hannibal. Or have the ability to see us. It requires trust. Trust isn’t easy for you._  
.  
.  
.  
Someone worthy of your friendship.  
.  
.  
.  
You spend a lot of time building walls, Hannibal. It’s natural to want to see if anyone is clever enough to climb over them.  


Hannibal remembers Bedelia’s words. It turns out Will is the only one who is clever enough to climb over Hannibal’s wall after all, the only one worthy of Hannibal’s friendship. He is by far the only one who sees Hannibal, and they trust each other.

With arms that are too used to carry dead bodies, Hannibal flips Will over and throws him into the bed almost too easily. He slides his arm around Will’s shoulder, calloused fingers touching and massaging the back of his neck, distracting him as his other large hand silently and skilfully unbuttoning his shirt. 

“That was terribly rude, Mr. Graham. What should be done about that?” Hannibal settles his warm hands on his chest, where Will’s heart is beating impossibly fast. Will gazes up at Hannibal, his lips slack, his eyes hooded with need. Hannibal gives Will an unsettling grin, his sharp canine teeth gleaming as he leans forward to whisper in Will’s ear in low, husky voice, his accent thick with desire. “I think I will eat your heart.” 

Hannibal inches closer to Will, his naked chest presses against Will’s. One of Hannibal’s hand reaches for Will’s throat, the grip on his neck dangerously tightens, holding him in place. Hannibal takes his time. He leans forward to scent Will’s neck like a prey, his breath, soft and light, ghosting across his skin.

His tender torture begins with featherlight kisses, followed by small nips with the tip of teeth, to bruising, unforgiving bites. Red brutal marks begins to blossom exquisitely on Will’s body along where his lips goes, down the side of his neck, along his collarbones, randomly on his chest, down his belly…When Hannibal props himself up again, his flushed lips are slack and wet. He watches Will gasps and moans and writhes under him beautifully, there is cruel amusement in his narrowed deep red eyes. 

Will’s mind is overwhelmed with pleasure and pain, unfocused and swimming, but the sudden and urgent sound of little dog feet walking on wood floor clears his mind like a switch.

“Hm, Hannibal, did you close the door?” Will asks, his lips hovering above lips. 

“…No.”

“Where’s Dante?” Will squints his eyes, tries to look around the dimly lit room. Dante is sitting quietly by the bedroom door, looking at Hannibal and Will with big, round eyes. In horror, Will hurriedly orders, “Tsssstt…Dante! No, get out…Out.” 

Dante tilts his head, his tongue lols out as if he is smiling back to Will.

Hannibal chuckles darkly as he senses Will’s skin heats up under his touch. Without looking at the dog, Hannibal gives a simple command in his slightly raised, authoritative voice, “Dante. Out.”

With a loud, sad huff, Dante stands and leaves the bedroom obediently.

Will looks at the smug grin on Hannibal’s face, he raises his eyebrows dramatically. “How…”

They stares at each other with heavily hooded eyes. Only the needs that hover uncertainly in the air between them, suspended in the communion between their eyes. Hannibal doesn’t answer, his grin widens as he leans down to lick on Will’s lips, prying open his mouth, tasting him with his tongue. 

Will feels drowsy. Everything is so gentle, like slipping into a warm bath. Losing his grip on reality, Will falls into the thick hot darkness of Hannibal’s mind. 

“Merry Christmas. Thank you for everything up to now.” 

—

The first morning light shines through the blinds, casting curious shadows on the bed where Hannibal and Will are sound asleep, cuddling close to each other in the centre of the huge, soft bed. 

Will is curling into himself like an insecure child. Hannibal’s arm drapes across his naked waist, clutching his body protectively like a parent bear.

In between the gaps of their touching legs, Dante is snoozing soundly on his back with his four paws up in the air, his nose twitches happily, dreaming of his favourite sausages links.

Outside, light snow is silently wrapping all the trees in a cottony lace. In the woods behind their house, a pair of deer tread lightly through the underbrush because they don’t want to hurt the plants.

There they are, Hannibal and Will, tucked away safely under the illusion of a perfect Gingerbread House in the darkest fairy tale. It’s one of those stories where the ending does not matter.

Not anymore.

 

-THE END… >:D I hope you'll all like it ;_; ? Your thoughts or comments are welcomed! <3

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on Tumblr too :D [@vulcanplomeeksoup](http://vulcanplomeeksoup.tumblr.com) Come chat with me about Hannibal !


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